


Slippery Situation

by DebraHicks



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebraHicks/pseuds/DebraHicks
Summary: Desperate ideas to escape can sometimes payoff with more than one benefit.Published in "Comrades #2"  9/1/1988
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Slippery Situation

"My knees are killing me."

"Your knees and my back." "I'll rub it for you later, assuming we have a later."

"Always the pessimist, Illya. Lean back on me and stretch your legs out."

Illya put his full weight back on his partner for a minute, moved his legs from their crossed position to out full in front of him. There was nothing to do about the way his shoulders were pulled back, wrists handcuffed in front of Napoleon. He looked down at Napoleon's hands resting at his waist. Napoleon's position was even more awkward, his arms pulled over Illya's rather than under.

"How long have they been gone?" Illya asked.

"Not long. It will take them a while to get a higher echelon in here to check us out."

Illya tried the cuffs again, putting all his concentration into squeezing his hand out. "Stop that,” Napoleon ordered. "You'll only hurt your hands."

Illya sighed, slumped back against Napoleon. "No good. I can almost get out. If I had something slippery, oil or something I could make it."

"I checked the whole place, there's nothing here but us and four blank walls," Napoleon stated. "I'll have a word with supply about making a stick of butter a standard issue item." 

While Napoleon rattled on Illya found himself staring down at Napoleon's hands. They rested a few inches below his waist. Very lightly he moved his fingers to check his own location. Napoleon stopped talking.

"Illya? What are you doing?"

"Something slippery. Napoleon..."

"No!"

"Napoleon, let's look at this logically..."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why not! It's...it's undignified!" Napoleon sputtered.

Illya grinned. "We have done a lot of undignified things."

"No."

"We have to do something before those guards get back. You know what their orders will be - separate us, hold us in maximum security and wait for a THRUSH leader."

"Yes, but..." Napoleon squirmed. "Illya, this isn't exactly the place and time to, uh, rise to the occasion. I may not be able to."

Illya turned as far as he was able, rubbed his cheek against Napoleon's shoulder. "You've never disappointed me before."

"Damn. You realize if the guard comes back early they won't have to kill me - I'll die of embarrassment."

"Close your eyes and relax. You might enjoy it."

Napoleon started to argue, shrugged in surrender.

Illya pressed back against the solid body, enjoying the comforting warmth. His hands fumbled around, getting a perspective on his position. It took five long minutes, with Napoleon giggling sporadically, before he got the zipper down and the cotton shorts moved aside. Patiently he rubbed the soft, familiar organ, touching, stroking the way he knew would excite Napoleon the quickest. Slow minutes went by. Nothing happened.

"Napoleon?"

"Sorry. Too nervous."

Illya stilled his hands. "I'm glad you weren't nervous our first time."

Napoleon laughed. "This may work. If we stay in this position when the guards come back they'll laugh so hard they'll be on the floor. We can overpower them and take the key."

"Do you ever take anything seriously?"

"Okay, okay. What now?"

"Tell me a fantasy."

"What?"

"A fantasy. Something to,” he almost smiled, "raise your spirits."

"The things I do for UNCLE,” Napoleon mumbled. "You won't laugh?"

"Napoleon!"

"Okay! Uh, let's see." He cleared his throat, closed his eyes. "There's this dark, stone dungeon. I'm tied down to this wide, wood table, nude, not hurt just tied down." His voice was hesitant. "The door opens and this big, nasty looking thug comes in carrying a whip. I pull at the ropes but there's no way to get lose."

Illya's eyebrows were doing a fast crawl toward his hair. This was not the sort of fantasy he would have figured Napoleon for. Too close to reality.

"Just as he raises the whip a gunshot sounds and the man falls back into the door way." A note of affection crept into the deep voice. "It's you, in the nick of time, as always. You're wearing a loose, black shirt, stuffed into a pair of tight black pants. The clothes highlight your face and hair. You come over and kiss me like your glad to see me." Illya could feel the almost laugh Napoleon tried to control.

Napoleon's voice grew a little hazy. "You ask if I'm okay, I say yes but you check me over anyway. You start to untie me then stop."

Illya almost questioned this strange turn of events but stopped as he felt the first faint response from the organ in his hand. He squeezed gently, encouraging more.

"You step back, sort of study the situation. You have this wicked smile on your face, a similar gleam in your eyes. Before I can ask what the hell you think you're doing you lean down and kiss me again. This time the kiss is demanding. I open for you, your tongue slips in, moves over mine, goes deep. You lean further down until most of your weight is on me. The shirt is silk, cool, so fine that it's almost non-existent. You're warm underneath. I can barely breathe by the time you pull away."

"As you pull back the silk brushes my nipples and they harden immediately. I tug at the ropes again, getting impatient. You laugh, something you don't do enough of, and step back. You start to undress, very slowly..."

There was a definite swelling under Illya's teasing fingers. Napoleon's voice faltered. "Illya?"

"Hush, love, go on."

"You unbutton the shirt first, leaving it inside the pants. When the shirt comes open you run your hand over your chest, over the small pink nipples. You're beautiful, as always, pale gold, fine ivory. You still aren't talking and the smile has faded into that sultry, come-on look you're so good at. Your eyes glow blue."

Illya smiled. Only Napoleon could make him feel like this, like he meant something to someone. A familiar itch settled in his groin. His hand faltered. He hadn't expected this.

"Illya?" Napoleon questioned the sudden stillness.

"Go on."

Napoleon leaned back, rubbed his shoulders against the narrower ones behind him. When he continued there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice leaving Illya with the uncomfortable knowledge that Napoleon knew the effect he was having on his partner. The voice became huskier, the fantasy now for the two of them.

"You unsnap the pants, peel them down slowly, all grace and smooth glides. Watching you strip makes me even harder. And you know it. I can see you're the same way. Your cock stands out, hot, ready."  
Illya moaned softly, his pants had gotten uncomfortably tight.  
Napoleon answered his moan. The long fingers on his cock sensed the deepening involvement, rubbed harder, surer. The slight blonde shifted both to relieve his own discomfort and to get a better grip on his partner.

"Illya,” Napoleon breathed, "I'm ready now, want you to touch me, beg you to. You do but only a little, teasing, a light kiss on my neck, another feather touch to each nipple, then one on the head of my cock. I try to say something, to beg again but before I can you kiss me, sucking my tongue into your mouth."

Napoleon took a deep breath. Illya's own chest echoed it. Their breathing was hard now, together.

“You switch positions, go down on me, suck my cock into your mouth. I yell, it feels so wonderful, the wet heat of your mouth. You slide up and down, pulling almost away then taking it back deep in your throat. I'm right on the edge, want you to finish it. It's too good. But you stop, pull away."

"You move up onto the table, straddle me. You stroke yourself, eyes closed, a little cream spills out. You carry it back; rub it around and into that gorgeous ass. I nearly come just watching. Very slowly you lower yourself down over my prick." Illya's hand tightened, Napoleon gasped.

His voice was a desperate whisper, punctuated by deep fast breaths. "It's so good. Your tight, hot, ass closing around me, joining us, making us one. You sit still, but I can feel the tension, your need to move. You start to ride me, slowly at first, but getting harder and faster, milking yourself at the same time, to the same pattern. You start to come... muscles so tight... spilling over..."

Napoleon's voice dissolved into a deep, gasping moan. Illya rocked back against him, his hand moving faster over the sweat slick organ. He felt the spasms run through its length. Napoleon pushed hard up into the hand that held him, weight back on Illya, cried out softly. Warm seed covered Illya's hands, the shackles.

It took Illya a minute to regain enough coherence to remember what the whole erotic exercise had been about but within seconds he had slipped free of the restraints.

He moved over to the door. Looking back at his still recovering partner Illya frowned. He motioned down to the dark stain on the front of his borrowed THRUSH uniform. "I'll get you for that Napoleon."

Napoleon smiled his best canary-eating grin. "It was your idea, lover."

Illya blushed. "What now? Plan Three?"

"Sounds good."

Illya yelled, the guard came in and twelve and a half minutes later they were headed back to Vienna in a stolen THRUSH limousine, complete with chilled champagne. Illya had not even seen Napoleon take the bottle, merely shrugged it off as more of the famous Solo luck.

A slight clinking sound distracted Napoleon's attention from the road and the glass in his hand. He glanced sideways at Illya. His smaller partner was dangling a pair of handcuffs in the air between them. Napoleon's eyebrows went up.

"Equipment,” Illya explained calmly. "I've already got the black shirt."


End file.
